


An Order From Your Commander

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Surrender 'Verse [12]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Established Relationship, Feelings, M/M, Peril, Romance, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24707392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Hamilton receives new orders at Yorktown.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Series: Surrender 'Verse [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/796566
Comments: 22
Kudos: 101





	An Order From Your Commander

They will never defeat the British via raw strength or resources, so Washington and his army wage a slower campaign—a war of posts that wears the enemy down by attrition. It's a more effective strategy than breaking themselves on the rocks of certain defeat, but it is also a grueling pace. The challenge becomes keeping the soldiery vested, primed for an endless sequence of skirmishes, dedicated to a cause that some days feels like a hopeless fantasy.

The only reason the colonies still _have_ an army is George Washington himself, and Hamilton knows this Fabian strategy has been hardest of all on him.

With his close range view, of course he recognizes that his general has spent every moment of the past five years yearning for a decisive battle. Washington has made no secret of his desperation to take back New York in an explosive show of force—an impossible and impractical dream, for the simple reason that the British are too firmly entrenched. Worse, with the British navy free to come and go, they can never truly be pinned down in New York.

Hamilton understood even before his first glimpse of the full picture—before he accepted the invitation to join Washington's military family as an aide de camp—that New York would never be the path to victory.

There have been days he could scarcely conceive of _any_ path toward victory, though that is another problem entirely.

Now they face a different landscape. The bulk of the continental army is entrenched around the vulnerable and enticing target of Yorktown. Cornwallis is trapped. For the first time since those blustery months of freshly ignited patriotism, _winning_ feels inevitable.

Hamilton doesn't try to picture what life will look like after. He has spent so long in a constant state of skirmish and battle that he can scarcely imagine—or remember—living in peacetime.

 _I wish there was a war_ , he remembers writing, when he was young and wistful and trapped in a world with no prospects. Foolish words to write—look how bloody and endless and costly this war has become—and yet Hamilton has finally made a name for himself.

If he survives the coming days—likely, given Washington's continuing refusal to let him fight—he will possess station and standing he could scarcely have dreamed before the war. Not so lofty as he could achieve with a field command, but still incredible. He is a member of the powerful Schuyler family, a trusted advisor to the commander in chief, and an indispensable component of the war effort.

And of course there is his more private connection with the general—though Hamilton does not ever intend to leverage his husband's position for personal gain.

Hamilton is doing nothing urgent when Lafayette interrupts his work. He's copying orders into his own more legible hand, even though this is a task most anyone could complete. It feels imperative to keep busy. The entire camp is a frantic whirlwind of activity, and even with the windows shut Hamilton can hear the distant cacophony of miners and sappers digging new entrenchments.

"His Excellency wishes to speak with you," Lafayette says, looking more sober than Hamilton has seen him in a very long time. The expression is so unfamiliar Hamilton sincerely can't tell if his friend is angry or simply hyper-focused on the tasks at hand. Lafayette has just emerged from Washington's counsel—which means he just learned his own orders in the coming attack—the position of glory he will have when at last the continental forces break the siege.

Hamilton swallows back bile and jealousy, struggling not to resent his friend's good fortune. Lafayette has more than earned this command—it's not his fault Hamilton has been repeatedly passed over for the same honor.

"Of course." Hamilton rises with a scrape of chair legs. He does not offer congratulations, since Lafayette has not said anything about the new assignment and Hamilton is not supposed to know about it. He settles for clasping Lafayette's arm on his way out of the room—the briefest touch, meant to convey camaraderie and affection without the clumsy need for words. The flicker of a smile Lafayette gives in answer is all the more communication they exchange as Hamilton passes by and then climbs the stairs.

He enters Washington's office—separate from their bed chamber in these new headquarters—and finds his general scowling at the wall.

Decorum dictates silence until he is addressed, but Hamilton is not patient enough to wait for Washington to notice him. His nerves are jittery, his heart pounding fast. He has sacrificed too much sleep in the fervor of preparation and he knows Washington has too. They've barely seen each other outside the crowded confines of the workroom. They certainly have not had time to indulge in more intimate congress.

Hamilton barely resists the urge to fidget with the golden band around his finger. "Is everything all right, sir?"

Washington gives no outward sign of surprise at Hamilton's question. "Come in, my boy. And close the door behind you."

There are no undercurrents of heat beneath the words, which means whatever it is that requires privacy, it's business and not pleasure. Strategy and not more private conversation.

Of course Hamilton quickly obeys. Then crosses the room and stands at attention directly before Washington's desk. _Now_ he waits. Not patient, but aware there is no point rushing Washington. The general knows he is here. Whatever he has to say will come when Washington is ready, and not an instant before.

When Washington finally speaks, the words come out a rumble so unhappy that it takes an extra moment for Hamilton to process their meaning.

"I'm promoting you to major general and putting you in command of a new battalion. You will coordinate with Lafayette in a two-pronged assault to capture the enemy's best-fortified redoubts."

Hamilton stares. And absorbs this information. And stumbles back into a chair just as his legs give out beneath him.

"You're what?" He can't have heard right.

And yet he also can't breathe for the irrational surge of hope in his chest. For so many years Washington has refused him this—has looked Hamilton in the eye and acknowledged that any other officer would long since have been promoted and put into the field. But here Hamilton has remained, because Washington can't bear to order him into danger.

He cannot fathom what changed.

"It has to be you." Washington is still not looking at him. The general's jaw is tight, his profile foreboding. There is thunder barely contained in the stiff set of broad shoulders. "I can allow no margin for error. And if the French take both redoubts, they will usurp the acclaim that must rightfully be ours. You and Lafayette will work in concert, and the victory will be a true joint effort."

He says the word 'victory' with the certainty of a foregone conclusion—and yet the grim edge to the word makes it clear he is not happy. For a moment Hamilton wonders why, before the obvious answer comes to him.

"You think I'll take the opportunity to martyr myself," he says softly. He can't muster any indignation, not when his general—his husband—looks so utterly miserable. Not when he knows just how loathe the man is to subject him to avoidable danger. Never mind the hypocrisy of leaving _Hamilton_ behind, alone and miserable, while Washington rides headlong into peril over and over again.

At last Washington shifts in his seat, turning to meet Hamilton's eyes. "I have ample grounds for concern."

"That's not fair," Hamilton protests, indignant. "I've never taken unnecessary risks in the line of duty."

"You and I possess very different understandings of the word 'necessary'."

" _Sir_." Hamilton stares, stung by the censure. "You make it sound like you doubt my judgment." Surely by now he's proven himself smarter than everything Washington's rebuke suggests. Hell, Hamilton has exercised truly excessive discretion since he first came to understand what losing him would do to the man leading their cause.

Difficult as it is sometimes to separate husband from general, Hamilton has done his best to accept and work within his own protected position, because he believes in this fight. He will not be the one to compromise their chances.

Perhaps Washington's thoughts are tracing a similar path, because a moment later he deflates. His shoulders slump, his eyes close, his lips part to allow a barely audible sigh of resignation.

"Of course I don't doubt your judgment." Washington pinches the bridge of his nose. "If I did, I would not make you the most vital component of the coming attack. I only wish…"

It doesn't matter that he tapers off. Hamilton understands anyway. He knows what this decision costs—how terrified Washington is of losing him. And no matter how careful Hamilton might promise to be, there is simply no denying the underlying reality of the situation.

General Washington is ordering his husband into battle—a tactic he has heretofore managed to avoid—and in doing so he is breaking his own heart.

"I know," Hamilton murmurs. "George—"

"I do not want you to go. If you don't return from the field—"

" _I know_ ," Hamilton repeats more fiercely, keeping his voice low. Then, because for once words aren't enough—or perhaps because he does not _have_ words for this—he stands, moving away only long enough to lock the door. Then he returns, rounding the desk, nudging Washington to make space and then dropping astride his husband's lap.

Washington's arms rise immediately to wrap around him, and Hamilton frames the man's beautiful face between his hands. Guides him down and leans up to press a kiss to his forehead—then his cheek—then the corner of his mouth.

Hamilton does not take further liberties, because he's not trying to distract. He is trying to reassure. He won't make promises he might not be able to keep, but he can at least show Washington that he truly understands. That he is here _now_. That he will do everything he can to come back safe and whole, while praying all the while that Washington will do the same.

"I promise I'll be smart." He meets Washington's eyes steadily. "I won't abandon you willingly." He won't promise caution—he doesn't make a habit of lying to his general—but he won't be reckless either. He will comport himself as an officer should. He will share the same risks as his men, and he will do what he can to bring every soldier home alive, himself included.

Washington presses forward and takes his mouth in a hard kiss. There is desperation in the play of lips, the nip of teeth. Not the usual hunger, but something even more intense.

By the time Washington releases him, Hamilton's head is spinning and his chest aches. He wants to stay in this office and keep right on touching, savoring this contact now that he knows how close danger lurks for both of them. He wants to make up for weeks, months, _years_ of lost time. He wants to find himself naked on his back, the hard floor beneath him, the crushing inferno of his husband pinning him down and fucking him dry.

He wants bruises and affection, pain and softness, strength and intimacy grounding him right here in this moment.

Instead he will have to stand up too soon and return to work. There will be no time alone together before the attack. Hamilton will simply have to pray and believe both he and Washington will survive the coming ordeal.

"George," he says, still breathless from the force of the kiss. "Tell me you'll be smart too. Promise me."

"I will." Washington holds him tighter. "I swear."

**Author's Note:**

> Here's another installment that skirts the actual history closely enough I just want to give a caveat. REAL LIFE WASHINGTON WAS NOT A GREAT DUDE. If you want a more accurate historical picture than this series conveys, please consider these books:
> 
> * _Never Caught_ , by Erica Armstrong Dunbar (excellent and detailed account of an enslaved woman who successfully ran away from the Washingtons and lived the rest of her life free, despite their best efforts to find her)  
> * _Buried Lives_ , by Carla Killough McClafferty (a solid book, geared more toward younger readers, covering the lives of several different enslaved individuals at Mount Vernon)  
> * _His Excellency, George Washington_ , by Joseph Ellis (not as good a resource on this subject as the two above, and still a bit hero-worshippy, but still a more balanced a view of Washington than Chernow provides)  
> * _You Never Forget Your First_ , by Alexis Coe (a newer bio that does a great job of calling out some of the bullshit and hypocrisy that exist in the thousands of books of scholarship about Washington)


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